The Art of Cynicism
by sisirongana
Summary: Or, five times Miranda Lawson doesn't believe Shepard  and the one time she does . Because Doubting Thomas isn't the only person that was a little more than wary of a supposed savior. Miranda/F!Shepard. Oneshot.


_Note: OHGODHELP someone please just write Blood from a Stone for me. Orrrrr...read and review this blurb that was supposed to help cure my writer's block for that story and instead, suddenly had a life of its own. Unbetaed, own nothing, etc. etc. Thanks, kiddos._

* * *

><p><strong>1.<strong>

A single voice shatters her concentration to all hell, but she isn't startled. Miranda Lawson is never startled, but one thing she certainly is, however, is irritable.

"I haven't had the chance to tell you how much I appreciate what the Lazarus Project has done for me," says Shepard, her gray eyes unflinchingly meeting Miranda's blue ones. Miranda's spent years slaving over Shepard's body, knows it down to its intricacies at the cellular level, but she's never really seen Shepard's eyes clearly until tonight. She's not sure if she likes it, the slate blue-gray gaze that's so alert and sharp, disturbingly catlike.

"Yes," she replies tersely, returning her gaze to the datapad in her hands, as if Commander Darby Shepard, the Savior of the Citadel, does not warrant her full attention. "I just hope it was worth it. Many people died today," she adds, her tone accusatory. "I hope their sacrifices won't be in vain."

Shepard squints for a moment, as if she's analyzing a particularly complicated math problem. "We're going to have to work together," she says calmly. "If there is some sort of problem, you should let me know."

The invitation to speak freely is clear, and Miranda takes it readily, using the tone of voice that's earned her status as the Ice Queen. "Look, Commander, I just think that we have a job to do, and it would be best to do it rather than to sit and talk about it," Miranda explains.

Irritatingly unperturbed, Shepard merely lifts a dark eyebrow. "Right. That is certainly an understandable approach," she says, and Miranda wonders how this diplomatic, muted creature ever served as the brilliant, aggressive Alliance commander she is supposed to be. She sounds more like a damned politician than a bloody soldier. "But I'm not just interested in doing the job," she continues, "I'm interested in doing it right. Having your cooperation is part of that."

Would they begin holding hands and singing kumbayahs in the engine room now too? Miranda holds in the urge to scoff, the urge to say, "Yeah, right," because technically, even though Shepard 2.0 is basically her creation, the Commander is also her superior now. "Yes, Commander." She says the title like an insult.

"I'll make sure you didn't just get your hopes up, Miss Lawson," says Shepard in a tone Miranda cannot decipher. She takes the comment as both a respectful reprimand and personal challenge.

"Yes, Commander," Miranda repeats with a voice that's bone-dry and utterly skeptical, watching her personal dark-haired Frankenstein walk away with unfaltering ease.

* * *

><p><strong>2.<strong>

She slams her hand down on the table in a rare burst of anger, and Jacob flinches a little. Inwardly, Miranda smirks. Easily startled, but never irritable. Perhaps the direct contrast between the two of them in those aspects is what inevitably kept anything from happening romantically.

He stands there patiently, waiting for their superior officer with a ramrod straightness to his back, while Miranda restlessly paces the room.

Or perhaps, Miranda thinks as she watches him stand there like a bump on a log, it's the fact that he's just so utterly boring sometimes.

"I see the value in saving the krogan, but I just don't think waking him is worth the risk," Miranda says, crossing her arms with exasperation as he simply blinks at her.

"You've mentioned that a few times now," Jacob mutters. When the Commander strolls into the briefing room, however, he noticeably straightens like the Alliance soldier he'll always be, saluting like an idiot.

"Is there a problem?" Shepard asks, leaning casually against the table in a way that is admirable in its self-assuredness, and _really_ irritating otherwise. She looks relaxed and utterly at ease, which raises Miranda's hackles further; it's a debriefing, not a bloody housewarming party.

Jacob keeps his eyes on the wall across from him and stays mute. His reaction is telling enough, but Miranda clears her throat anyway and voices her concerns again, speaking plainly. "I don't think you should wake the krogan. We're not sure if he's even mentally stable."

Shepard hums, shifting her weight and contemplating Miranda's ideas as if they were as trivial as picking out the color of her leg guards. Miranda scowls immediately, but Shepard ignores it, brushing an unruly strand of dark hair out of her eyes. "If he proves to be a threat, I won't hesitate to put a few bullets in him," she offers, like that should be enough - the fact that she's even placating Miranda at all is an issue all its own.

"And if Okeer put some sort of failsafe on him?" retorts Miranda. "I respect your decisions, Commander," – Miranda prides herself on not smirking at this – "But I will not hesitate to tell you of my concerns. We have literally no information about this krogan; I strongly suggest we leave him be, perhaps even turn him over to the Cerberus labs."

There is a beat of silence, and Shepard sucks on a tooth in contemplation. "For someone who is so disinterested in talking, you sure are doing a lot of it, Miss Lawson," says Shepard coolly, with the ever-present quirk in her lips that could easily pass as a smirk. The temperature in the room seems to go down a few degrees as the ramifications of Shepard's comment settles in: the first person to stand up to her in years is the same person who literally owed Miranda her (second) life. Diplomatic, muted creature indeed, Miranda frowns.

Jacob stifles an undignified snort when he catches Miranda's glare. The lead Cerberus operative, however, remains silent as she seethes. "I am sure whatever you decide will be appropriate, Commander," Jacob says, although his slight suspicions, markedly less paranoid than Miranda's, remain. Miranda scowls at him, despises how anyone with a shinier badge can make him bow down like a dog.

Shepard sighs, and raises her hands in a conciliatory fashion (_again_ with the placating, Miranda thinks darkly). "I will handle the situation if it gets out of hand. But I don't think it will. Just trust me on this, will you?" she says, looking expectantly and deliberately at Miranda.

Her anger still bubbles within, simmering beneath the surface. The urge to snap at Shepard is almost irresistible, but Miranda knows when to pick her battles. Instead, she simply narrows her eyes, letting the lie slip easily past her lips.

"…Certainly, Commander."

* * *

><p><strong>3.<strong>

Grunt proves himself to be as valuable as every other person on the team, but Miranda makes no mention of it later, lest Shepard's godforsaken smirk expand into the shit-eating grin she always has when she wins. Arguments, negotiations, battles, bar fights – Darby Shepard never seems to lose, and Miranda feels her mask of nonchalance and restraint slipping. Something about Shepard just irks her, makes her want to take off that icy mask of 'dignified Cerberus agent' in the face of the heated myriad of emotions the Commander brings out in her, all of which revolve around her growing frustration. Things seem to be getting out of hand – Miranda does not know exactly why, but she sure as hell knows she does not like it one bit.

As loathe as she is to even entertain the idea, Miranda wonders if it's merely hormones, the same ones that cramp up her stomach and make her even bitchier to everyone around her every month. But then again, the key point is that those hormones only act up monthly. Whatever all…_this_ is, it drives her batty every single day, keeps her up at night. It's only exacerbated by Shepard's presence: perhaps Miranda's just allergic to overtly noble heroics, but it doesn't change the fact that Miranda's just barely keeping her icy mask in place.

That all gets shot to hell one day when Shepard takes one drink from the batarian at Afterlife, blinks for a moment, and collapses to the floor.

"Is she going to be all right?" Miranda asks, and if Mordin notices the panicked shakiness of her voice, he does not comment. They had managed to drag Shepard down to the lower levels of the Omega underground to get a better look at her: Mordin and one of the humans down there fuss over Shepard's prone body, checking vital signs.

"Yes. No. Maybe. Pulse thready, but there. Shallow breathing. Must examine further," Mordin states.

"Don't you know humans aren't supposed to drink that shit at Afterlife?" asks the man helping Mordin. He jumps a little in surprise when Shepard blearily opens unfocused gray eyes.

"Commander," Miranda says, at her side instantly, "Are you all right?"

Shepard squints to regain focus and sits up slowly, shaking her head. "Wha..What happened?"

"I've never seen a human drink that and live," says the man in awe, watching Shepard dust off her armor a little groggily. Shepard only grimaces, and does not hesitate to take Miranda's proffered arm as she struggles to her feet.

"What was in that drink?" demands Miranda. The way Shepard's hand lingers on her arm is a little distracting.

The man shrugs. "That bartender…the batarian on the lower level. He gave you that drink, right?"

"Yes," says the Commander, working out the kinks in her neck. "Let me guess," she deadpans. "Poison."

"Only for humans. He's got it out for them or something," the man answers.

"Charming," says Miranda dryly, before noticing the telltale gleam in Shepard's steely eyes. There is an invigorating flutter of excitement in Miranda's stomach; her hand twitches towards her pistol.

"Poisoned," the Commander mutters. "_Of__course_ I'd get poisoned the _one__time_ I have a drink on duty," Shepard sighs. She shakes her head once more, then stretches and cracks her knuckles. "Let's go pay a visit to our little friend, hmm?" Her grin is wolfish. "Just for a chat," she adds innocently. "Wouldn't want to hurt him or anything…unprofessional like that. Right, Miss Lawson?"

Miranda gives her a skeptical look that is softened by the slight amusement she cannot possibly hold back. "Right, Commander," she replies agreeably and perhaps a little too cheerfully.

* * *

><p><strong>4.<strong>

After a while, working with Shepard gets a little less annoying, and Miranda is a little less irritable. It actually gets kind of – dare she say it? - _fun_, kicking ass and taking names with someone that's just as capable as she is. That is, of course, until it gets kind of embarrassing, because in one fell swoop Shepard learns practically all of her dark family secrets, holds the fate of her beloved little sister in her hands, and most noticeably – sees Miranda practically weep like a child in an elevator.

But Commander shrugs it all off and gives her a smile that for once, Miranda doesn't interpret as goading. When Miranda insists on finding some way to repay her, Shepard just says, "You don't owe me a thing, Miranda. Except maybe a drink."

So, Miranda buys her a whole damn bottle. She always did like going above and beyond.

Shepard insists she share a drink with her, and maybe that's why Miranda finds herself pleasantly settled into the soft cushions of her couch, smirking at Shepard over the rim of her glass of brandy.

"I'm serious," the Commander protests, setting her tumbler on the table. "It's all very covert and secret agent-y. I even have to use my…" she pauses dramatically, "…more feminine wiles, if you will."

Miranda snorts into her drink. "You, the greatest military leader of our time…using your…feminine wiles." The incredulity drips from her voice.

"I have wiles! Well…" she recants, "I have some. And most of them usually involve my gun, but that doesn't mean they all do." Shepard's scowl melts into a pout, of all things. "I _am_ a woman, you know."

Now _this_ Miranda knows quite well; she swallows back a particularly large gulp, attributing the heat in her face to the alcohol. She clears her throat loudly. "Surely. Anyway," Miranda says, deftly abandoning that particular thread of conversation, "I take it this is a solo mission?"

"Samara's going to be watching—" Miranda gives her a weird look, and Shepard hurries to finish, "—Not like that! I mean, she's going to keep an eye on us. You know. So she can spring the trap before Morinth gets all…homicidal sex maniac on me."

"Of course," Miranda replies. "Well, I wish you the best of luck, Shepard. An Ardat-Yakshi might be the most dangerous foe you've faced so far," she smirks. "What with her… feminine wiles and all."

"Please," Shepard drawls, examining her fingernails. "She won't even lay a finger on me. I never give into temptation, Miranda."

"Right." Miranda's stomach churns a little, surely because she's imbibed a little too much.

Later that night when Shepard returns with a bewildered Samara, Miranda waits until they're alone in the briefing room to check up on her. Just for a status report, of course. "So…how'd it go?"

Shepard sighs. "About as well as expected. Samara's understandably upset."

Miranda nods. "I take it she got there in time to stop Morinth… Unless there was nothing for her to stop. Were you were able to resist temptation as you so assuredly told me, Commander?" She asks, tone far too casual.

Shepard's eyes suddenly dart away from Miranda's. "I…was never in any danger," she evades. "But things hardly got out of hand."

"That's good," Miranda replies absently, focusing on a dark mark on the Commander's pulse point. "So…what's that?" she asks, gesturing towards the quite obvious love bite. For some reason despite her attempts to feign casual interest, her tone sounds accusatory, and Miranda feels an inexplicable resurgence of irritation that she hasn't felt around Shepard in awhile.

Shepard blushes and looks guilty. "A bruise?"

Miranda sighs and hides her scowl. Right. Because getting punched in the throat only leaves a small bruise that's got bloody teeth marks, of all things. "Sure, Commander."

* * *

><p><strong>5.<strong>

It takes four days for the Commander's "bruise" to disappear: four days that Miranda spends in a particularly sour mood, rejecting all of Shepard's attempts at small talk with, "Another time. I have a lot of work to do, Shepard" even though she's completed all of her reports weeks ago. Four days ignoring the way Shepard doesn't look her in the eye during briefings, doesn't take her on any missions; four days of the team wondering why Shepard gets this weird hangdog expression whenever Miranda addresses her.

Well. She could take that guilty expression and sulk at the CIC, for all Miranda cares. Besides, it's all her own fault anyway: if the Commander has no problem with practically whoring herself out for a 'secret' mission, then why should Miranda?

On the first day, she finds that the answer to that question is simple: she just doesn't, Miranda thinks. Yes. She_doesn__'__t_ care at all that some crazed asari had her tongue down Shepard's throat.

On the second, she can admit that caring is a logical possibility. Because if she _did_care – and this is not an admission, only a hypothetical - then it would only be due to professional concern for the Commander and the mission, which is entirely rational.

By the third day, Miranda realizes she hasn't been entirely rational when it comes to Shepard in quite some time. In fact, the way she feels about Shepard – and yes, she'll admit that she does, if only to stop being delusional – is not rational at all, but well. There you go.

So, by the fourth day, when the Commander's "bruise" fades into nothingness, Miranda's workload miraculously lightens and so does her mood, the latter of which encourages the crewmembers to stop scattering like cockroaches whenever she's near. It also gives Shepard quite the surprise when she approaches Miranda once more, and the Cerberus operative welcomes the Commander's visit with unexpected warmth.

"…Heavy workload tonight?" Shepard asks, hovering warily by Miranda's door.

"No, actually," comes Miranda's easy response, much to the Commander's suspicion. "I'm all yours."

Shepard coughs. "Can I come in?" At Miranda's nod, she settles uneasily on the couch, eyes glued to her shoes. "So…" she hedges. "I feel as though I should…apologize. For…well," she hesitates. "I mean, it just seemed as though we should talk about…"

Miranda decides to take pity on her. "I have been meaning to speak with you, in fact," she interrupts, and for a second Shepard looks like a deer caught in the headlights. "About the mission," Miranda clarifies.

"The mission, yes," Shepard says, taking the hint with visible relief. "I'd love to talk about the mission."

Miranda smirks. "I just wanted to let you know that I'm very…impressed with you." The way she manages not to blush when she says this is a thing of beauty. "Things are going quite well, better than I could have hoped." The Cerberus agent watches in amusement as Shepard seems to puff up a little.

"I would hate to say 'I told you so'," Shepard teases, "But—"

"You told me so, I know," Miranda finishes, rolling her eyes. "In any case, I just wanted to let you know that I'm sorry for underestimating you. I actually wish Cerberus had recruited you earlier," Miranda says, and before Shepard can interrupt, she continues, "I know your opinion of Cerberus…and of me…but still. It's my version of a compliment," she says wryly. "So just take it before you start ranting about terrorism and whatnot."

"Good to know I'm so predictable," says Shepard. "And my opinion of you is vastly different than my…less-than-fantastic opinion of Cerberus."

"Does that mean you think I'm fantastic?" Miranda asks, coy.

The Commander rubs at her neck. "N-no. My opinion itself is fantastic. I made no judgments on how fantastic I think—on how fantastic you may or may not be." She frowns. "I mean…whatever. I have fantastic opinions."

"Right," Miranda smiles, thoroughly amused.

The scowl on the Commander's face is actually quite adorable. "Well, in my defense, you _are_ technically perfect," Shepard reasons. "How can I have a poor opinion of someone like you?"

Technically perfect: there it is, the fact that is always mentioned as a way of complimenting her, when all it does is act as an insult and a reminder of her father. There is a moment of silence that is surprisingly not uncomfortable, before Miranda sighs and moves from the couch to the window. "Don't sell yourself short," she says, trying to keep the bitterness and sadness out of her voice. "You're practically a bloody perfect human specimen yourself. You just weren't engineered in some test tube at the behest of a greedy, filthy rich bastard."

"I'm sorry for bringing that up," Shepard says softly, rising from the couch as well. To her credit, she does look more upset at her gaffe than Miranda does. "It really bothers you, doesn't it?"

"It does bother me, but don't apologize, Shepard…this is who I am. Created and…grown to be the perfect human, even though sometimes I feel like anything but," she admits, staring out at the stars.

"If I'm not allowed to sell myself short, then you're not either," the Commander says firmly, leaning against the windowsill and forcing Miranda to look at her. "You're giving your father way too much credit and yourself far too little. What you've done with your gifts is…" Shepard darts her eyes away for a moment. "Amazing. And admirable."

"Oh," Miranda says, surprised and suddenly light-headed. "Thank you, Commander."

After letting out a little cough, Shepard smirks, the teasing tone back in her voice. "Yeah, well," she mutters. "Someone of my caliber wouldn't be slumming it with lesser mortals anyway," she says loftily, waving a hand that's purely for dramatic effect and Miranda's entertainment. "Just don't get jealous of all the attention I receive from your Illusive Man."

"Must it always be a competition with you?"

"It's so fun watching you lose, so yes."

Miranda rolls her eyes. "Don't get so cocky. Who put you back together again?"

"Hmm." Giving her a mock bow, Shepard grins. "Of course. Your personal little Humpty-Dumpty thanks you, your highness."

"I prefer Frankenstein," Miranda retorts, wondering if EDI's thermostat was on the fritz again; the room suddenly felt a few degrees warmer than usual. "As well as 'your majesty.'"

"Is that so?" the Commander murmurs, pushing off of the windowsill and sauntering ever closer. "Awfully full of yourself, Miss Lawson."

"What can I say?" says Miranda, inexplicably stepping forward as well. "I do damn good work." Her eyes trail up and down the Commander's body.

"Yeah," comes the soft reply, and suddenly those gray eyes and full lips are all Miranda can see. "You really do."

One second Miranda's so close to the Commander that she can feel the other woman's body heat and smell her soft, clean scent; the next, Miranda finds herself actually pressed up against her. Solid, strong arms grip her waist and Shepard's mouth is on hers; it's too much and not enough, and Miranda's hands are in the Commander's hair, then scraping her nails down the back of her neck when Shepard's hands dig into her hipbones. There's tongue and teeth and fire and damn it, trust Commander Shepard to turn a kiss into a heated competition as well, not that she can really complain.

It's really more of the shock than actual willpower that gives her the strength to push Shepard away. Internal alarms are going off in her head, and she touches her fingertips to her lips in disbelief. Just because she had admitted that she had beyond professional feelings for Shepard didn't mean that she could go and be so…well, bloody unprofessional about it. She had had plans: organized plans and hypotheses about the ways this could all go, ones that certainly didn't involve using insults as foreplay and making out like teenagers in her office. "What the hell was that?" she blurts.

"Uh," is all Shepard says, helpful as always. She merely blinks a little, fuzzily looking down at Miranda.

"Oh god. Wait. Okay. That was…"

"Fantastic?" murmurs Shepard with a dazed little grin.

"Ye—no. I mean. I need to…work. And to think. Yes. So…goodbye," Miranda mutters.

"Huh?" For a moment Shepard appears confused until there is a telltale gleam in her eyes, a familiar quirking of her lips. Nervously, Miranda drags her gaze from the floor to look up at Shepard, only to see that godforsaken shit-eating grin. "Commander," she says, a warning. The grin doesn't budge, and neither does Shepard. "I said, I need to think." Shepard tilts her head, and Miranda just huffs. "_Alone,_" she stresses, frustrated.

The other woman holds her hands up in surrender. "All right, all right. I'll go and let you think." Cheekily, she adds, "Hopefully about me."

"Oh god, get out of here," Miranda hisses, shoving her superior officer towards the door. She practically flees towards her desk, but not before she scowls at the self-satisfactory, smug look on the Commander's face. "And stop smiling, damn it."

"As you wish, Miss Lawson," Shepard says, retreating from her office with that stupid grin. "Trust that I shall adhere to your orders immediately and effectively." Miranda receives a mock salute that she finds absurdly endearing, but she doesn't buy Shepard's bullshit for a second. Rolling her eyes, she can only murmur fondly, almost to herself.

"Of course, Commander."

* * *

><p><strong>1.<strong>

Days later, ones that are spent actively avoiding the thought of Shepard's mouth on hers, Miranda's pretty sure she's got it sorted.

"I've been thinking," Miranda announces when the Commander enters her office.

"So I've been told," smiles Shepard.

"Perhaps…" Miranda hesitates at the sight of that warm gaze. "Perhaps…we shouldn't do this."

The smile on Shepard's face disappears instantly. "Or," she drawls. "Perhaps we should. Maybe you just thought way too hard about things."

"Listen," Miranda says in frustration, flicking a strand of hair out of her eyes. "At first I thought it was just stress, hormones, whatever. Then I realized it was just a moment of stupidity on my part." At Shepard's hurt look, Miranda elaborates further. "Don't…" she sighs. "You have to admit how ridiculous this is, Commander. This is no time for emotional entanglement. We both know more than anyone what we're up against. What our odds of survival really are." Deflated, she slumps onto the edge of her bed. Maybe it's not as sorted as she thought.

"All the more reason," Shepard says. "What have you got to lose, Miranda?" She asks, sitting next to the other woman.

Miranda grips the bed sheet beneath her hand, wrinkling it. "Too much. Can't you see that?"

Shepard's face molds into a rare expression of seriousness. "I can," she says simply, and her hand rests itself on top of Miranda's, tanned and warm, unfurling the clenched fist.

Instinctively, Miranda's fingers entwine with Shepard's. "Who thought this was a good time for love?" she mutters, shaking her head.

Squeezing her hand, the Commander smiles. "Hang on a second. This was about love? I thought it was about getting laid." A deep, throaty chuckle rumbles in her chest when Miranda frowns and smacks her lightly on the arm. "I think you just broke my arm," she pouts. "Now I won't be in top form on the battlefield."

Although it's clear that the Commander is completely and utterly unharmed, the look in Miranda's eyes is solemn. "You had better be in top form, Commander." Miranda doesn't allow Shepard to interrupt with a witty retort, and adds with vehemence, "I'm serious, damn it. Don't die out there. Promise me."

Briefly, in an absolutely charming old-fashioned gesture, Shepard brings their entwined hands to her lips, kissing Miranda's knuckles. "I won't," Shepard says simply but firmly. "And neither will you."

"How can you be so sure?" Miranda asks.

Shrugging, Shepard gives her a million-watt smile. "Because I am. So trust me," she says, gray eyes bright. "You _do_ trust me, right?" she jokes.

Miranda just smiles and rests her head on Shepard's shoulder.

"Yeah…I do."


End file.
